And that’s how they get you. One minute, you’re all “aww, he’s so friggin’ cute I might die.”

And then, they pee on your floor.

And chew up your running shoes.

And wake you up in the middle of the night barking and whining.

If I did that to you, you’d think I was an ass. That’s okay, you’d be correct.

But, nooooo. Puppies do things like this every single day, and they’re still cute. So you want to be mad, but then you look at them and they completely disarm you with their cuteness. Well, puppies, I’m on to your little tricks. You can’t fool me.

The summer before I started college, I worked at a grocery store. For that reason, and, I’d like to think, because I’m a decent human being, I always return grocery carts once I’ve finished loading my car.

I’ve been called out on this a lot, recently. Once, a Whole Foods employee asked if I’d really walked all the way back to the store from my car just to return my cart. Of course I did. Whole Foods had graciously let me use the cart for my shopping convenience, and now that my grocery shopping adventure was over, it was time to return the cart.

He was a little incredulous and extremely grateful, probably because it was 100 degrees outside and he was not excited about rounding up shopping carts in a shade-free asphalt parking lot.

Another time, a non-grocery store employee thanked me and handed me a card that said I was awesome.

Actually, it was some type of promotion, so I’m sure the card said I was #awesome.

I love to cook. Also, I’m pretty good at it. And I love when people acknowledge when I’m good at it.

Which is why I took a picture of the mayonnaise I made from scratch.

Isn’t it pretty? Aren’t you a little amazed that I did this with an egg, some lemon juice, and an obscene amount of olive oil?

Of course, I cannot replicate that amazing feat. What I end up with now is a white, oily, soupy mess. It’s part of my love-hate relationship with my blender, which bares the brunt of all my cooking frustrations.

The point is, I made mayonnaise from scratch.

I have an entire bookshelf comprised of cookbooks with bookmarks and notes peppered throughout. Anyone who sits down in my living room is met with this colorful collection of culinary accomplishments.

Except one.

It’s my culinary shame. In all my perusals of various bookstores, I have neglected the classics.

I, Michelle, do not own The Joy of Cooking.

Or The Art of French Cooking.

Judge away, but please feel free to leave comments telling me how I’m still a good person.